Writing With the Funny Hand
by uhpockuhlipz
Summary: edit: Okay, this is going to turn into a series of UNRELATED brittana one-shots, so. Brittana. Might have other couples on the side eventually...
1. Writing With the Funny Hand

**I'm sorry I suck and haven't updated This Isn't Dating in ages. I swear I'm going to. I'm sorting through my feelings for this season and working shit out. Promise. But meanwhile, have some fluffy Brittana.**

We were four when we met, okay? Back before kids thought of everyone as 'boy' or 'girl'. So maybe I fell in love with her then before I knew I wasn't supposed to. It doesn't make me gay... It just means I never stood a chance.

Like, how was I supposed to resist her? She was a skinny little thing with two blonde braids and bruised knees. Everyone could always see the gap where her first lost tooth had been because she never stopped smiling – or hardly ever – and she was always making friends even though not everyone understood half the things she said. I did try to ignore her. Seriously. She said "Hi, I'm Brittany!" and held out her tiny hand and I ignored her and kept scribbling on my coloring page. So she leaned in closer to me and pressed her hands to the table top and whispered, "Your drawing is pretty." Again I ignored her. Then it was, "Why do you write with your funny hand?" I got mad then and told her that she should shut up or I'd hit her in her funny face. Most kids got scared of me when I said stuff like that. Brittany only smiled and whispered, "If you colored those clouds pink, they'd taste like cotton candy."

How the actual fuck was I supposed to resist that?

"What's your name?"  
>"Santana."<p>

"You're really pretty."

"… whatever."

"I like your hair."

"Leave me alone."

"Do you want to be my very best friend forever, Santana?"

"…. Yeah."

She had me wrapped against her goddamned red-marker-stained finger. Sneaky little bitch.

By the time we were fourteen, boys and girls had very distinct roles. Boys liked girls (and I'm not talking about the crappy band). That was just how it was. I spent the summer after eighth grade singing the praises of Noah Puckerman, my future high school boyfriend, while Brittany spoke vaguely of the idea of dating Mike Chang. Still, despite our bright dating plans, we spent that entire summer together- just like every other summer. We talked about those boys, but we didn't bother to talk to them in all the spare time we had. Instead we watched movies and cuddled, moving back and forth between our two houses but never leaving one another for more than two days in a row. I mentioned something about wanting to kiss Puck during one of our sleepovers and Brittany went quiet for a while. Then she asked, "Do you want to kiss him?" and all I could ask was "Who?" because that conversation had been like, a whole five minutes ago. "Puck," she replied. "Yeah, I guess. That's what happens when you like someone, BrittBritt."

"You like me."

"Of course. You're my best friend."

"Do you want to kiss me?"

"I… That's a different kind of like, Britt."

"I want to kiss you, too."

And then she kissed me and I was totally wrapped around her watermelon-lip-smackers-coated mouth. Or whatever, because that kind of sounds weird.

So now here I am, eighteen years old and so hopelessly in love with her that I can't even fucking _try _to love someone else the same way. Why would I want to? My Brittbritt was perfect- sweet, kind, happy, beautiful, and really good with her hands if you know what I mean. I love to touch her. I love to be touched by her. And not just like that, you fucking perv. But like… the simple things. The linking of our pinkies, the brush of her fingers over my knee, the way she'll lean over and peck me on the cheek when I do something that makes her super happy. And it was hard at first. To accept that I loved her. I guess I fucked it up for a while, but whatever. I got my shit together for senior year and asked her to be my right-there-in-fucking-public girlfriend.

She had me totally wrapped around those long dancer's legs. In several really interesting positions.

And that totally doesn't make me gay.


	2. Only Human

You're pissed. Like seriously pissed. You don't let that show on your face, though, because Brittany doesn't like confrontation and you know if you look pissed off now, she's going to put a serious damper on you plans to wheel Happy Nofeet off a cliff. Besides, your pissed-as-fuck feelings of uselessness aren't top priority right now. What matters is that Brittany called you during lunch in tears because of what the Crippled Wonder had said to her. What matters is her and making her feel better again. What matters is showing her that she is definitely NOT stupid.

So you shove the small drink into her hands the moment you see her and she sniffs and smiles, stirring it slowly. And so what if you were mad at her for her mistake on her weird talk show thing? You've had to do damage control before. You're good at bullshitting. It so isn't even an issue now that you've had three periods to think it over. Totally under control. Whereas this Artie-is-a-dick situation is fresh in your (and her) mind and that is totally not fucking allowed. "Why would he call me that?" she asks yet again and, okay, maybe your heart breaks a little because it's fucking BRITTANY and seeing her upset is a little like seeing someone kick a goddamned puppy. That doesn't make you whipped or anything. It just makes you human.

"Because he's an asshole," you murmur soothingly in reply. What? It's true. Just because you're trying to make her feel better doesn't mean you're going to stop being your usual brutally honest self. "And because he doesn't understand you." And silently you add, not like I do. Because if anyone gets Brittany, it's you, and the only less-than-intelligent choice you figure she's made was choosing RoboWheels over you. Even that, though, doesn't make you think 'she's so stupid'. It makes you think 'well, you kind of deserved it for being a bitch for so long, but don't let her know you realize you deserved it because then you'll totally be making yourself vulnerable again and you really can't handle exposing your heart like that anymore'. Or some bullshit like that.

"He's usually really sweet to me," she replies glumly, blue eyes locked on the drink she isn't drinking. It cost you like five bucks or something ridiculous, but you aren't worried about the money you spent on it. You're more concerned that Brittany isn't showing interest in her favorite frozen treat. "But he said some mean stuff about you. Like he knows you better than I do. I couldn't just say nothing." and you're sighing because she totally could have said nothing, but she loves you so she didn't. It makes you warm inside to know Brittany stuck up for you and you lean forward to hug her because, okay, maybe you feel a little guilty for being happy about it when she's so obviously upset. But you're only fucking human, right? And she defended you to Stubbles McCripplepants- which, okay, definitely not your best insulting name. You take a mental note to think of some really scathing ones to make Brittany smile later. "He's the only one in this school who's never called me that."

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment and you think it's a damned good thing you're Puerto Rican or you'd be blushing like a scolded child right now. That totally wouldn't be good for your image. "Okay, not fair. We were five! I didn't even know what stupid meant."

"It still counts, Santana."

You roll your eyes but don't disagree because you still feel fucking guilty even though, hello, you were five and obviously you made it up to her because you've been best friends forever. "Whatever. Point is, he's a stupid boy-" and you can't help but put a bit of an emphasis on the words because one, you love being right, and two, you want her to see that HE was the stupid one, "and you're better off not putting up with that shit. You deserve way better. And B." You reach out and tap the end of her nose with a fingertip, heart fluttering when it scrunches and a small smile tugs her lips because yeah, you're so totally head over heels for this girl and goddamned Artie is a fucking idiot for fucking up this amazing thing he had going for him. And you promise yourself that you're going to try not to fuck it up again like he did- or like you did before. "You're totally the smartest person I know. Not even bullshitting you right now."

She gives you a skeptical look and you hate that she doubts what you've told her a million times before. "It isn't grades that matter, Brittbritt. It's your heart, and it's people. You're the best at both of those things. Now come on." You slip an arm around her shoulders and lead her away from the cafeteria towards your lockers. It feels nice, just holding her like this in public, even if it's a friendship thing and not a look-at-me-fuckers-this-is-my-girlfriend thing. "I needs ta get my math book from my locker." She giggles at your fake ghetto accent because you both know Lima Heights is the bad part of town, but Lima Heights Adjacent is a gated community on the opposite end- hello, your father is a fucking plastic surgeon who like, gives celebrities fake boobs and fixes their noses and shit, so why would you be from the slums?

"I love you, San," she whispers affectionately, and you kind of choke because she doesn't say thank you like some people might expect - best friends don't have to, that's a rule you silently agreed on a long time ago - but she says those words and you feel like your heart is going to explode with happiness. Even if that's kind of lame or whatever.

"I love you too, Britt."


	3. How to Dance

Brittany was pretty sure it wasn't fair at all. Nope, she didn't like this. Not even a little bit. She got Santana not showing up to her show. She got her not going to prom with her like they were supposed to. If Brittany understood anything, it was Santana. And she totally got that Santana was scared. There were a lot of reasons- because of what people would say, because of what they would do, because of her traditional Catholic parents. None of those reasons explained, however, why Santana had so suddenly decided that David Karofsky was now her boyfriend. Brittany did not get that part. What had happened, after all, to the love admission the brunette had given her? Why weren't they the ones dancing together instead of San and Dave? It wasn't like people cared. Brittany herself had danced with a girl or two tonight and no one even looked twice.

God, that wasn't fair.

Brittany was pouting a little when Blaine joined her, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes narrowed. God, he didn't even have any rhythm. He was just kind of bouncing there and Santana was indulging him, dancing absently beside him with little interest. Well, okay, they kind of looked like friends, but not like a couple. Every slow dance, they didn't bother to make eye contact or anything. They hardly even moved. It hurt Brittany to see Santana pretending like that when they could just be dancing in the open together without issues. God, she wanted to dance with Santana.

"You doing okay, Brittany?" She looked over (and down) at Kurt's boyfriend, a friendly smile tugging her lips vaguely upward as she nodded. "You seem to be zoning out a bit. We're on next." Brittany bit her lip and nodded somewhat, eyes skirting around to find Santana and the giant oaf of a boy she was with again. "Are you sure you're okay?" Blaine again, his voice coated with concern as he watched her watch the crowd. "Not nervous, are you?"

Brittany shook her head and turned to look at Blaine. He was a nice guy. He was doing a really nice thing for Kurt, going to prom with him and putting together this whole performance. He didn't even go here and yet here he was, hoping to make prom special for his boyfriend. And hardly anyone cared about them, either. Two boys dancing together with little to no looks was pretty good for this high school. If only Santana could see that. If only she weren't dancing with David Karofsky. If only she would dance with Brittany instead… "Blaine." Her voice shot the name out abruptly.

"Er… Yes, Brittany?"

"I know you have this whole romantic song planned out," she rushed on, her hands falling to her sides so that her fingers could catch at the material of her dress. She rolled the fabric between her digits nervously, blue eyes locked on the shorter teen. "But umm… you and Kurt are kind of already dating and I really have this song I want to sing so I know it's asking a lot but I was hoping we could sing it instead because I… I…" Her eyes filled and she swiped weakly at them, forcing the tears back again.

"Oh." Startled by the cheerful blonde's abrupt tears, the warbler moved forward and patted her shoulder. "Sure, Brittany. I'm sure Kurt would understand. What song did you have in mind?"

Instantly her face lit up, and beaming, she gave him the song title. An eyebrow lifted, but Blaine nodded in agreement without asking questions. Brittany hadn't liked him much before that moment (his eyebrows kind of looked like caterpillars and she was certain he'd gotten lost and couldn't find the Shire), but this was endearing him to her. He had a quick discussion with the band and with Tina and then they took the stage.

_You are the girl that I've been dreaming of_

_Ever since I was a little girl_

Brittany's pale eyes searched the crowd and found Santana again. The Latina was watching her and Brittany could tell she got the message. Their eyes met and she tried a little smile, though she got nothing but a pained look in return. Blaine was otherwise getting some strange looks for the weird lesbian undertones of his song, but that was cool. No one knew him so it wasn't a big deal. It was Santana's reaction that mattered, Santana who needed to get it. And she did. Brittany could see it. She didn't know what that meant for them, but she got it.

After prom, satisfied by the dancing and fun she'd had, Brittany collapsed into bed. She was asleep moments later and awake again not long after that, it seemed. It was the middle of the night when her bed dipped and the familiar weight of her best friend settled against her side. Santana didn't say anything. Brittany didn't either. Her arm looped around the Latina, who snuggled closer and sighed a bit into the skin of Brittany's neck. "You know," she whispered after some time, her tan fingers skirting over Brittany's collar bone, "We promised to go to prom together when we were little. And then when we started doing stuff,we said we'd have after prom together even if we didn't go together." Lips brushed Brittany's neck and she sighed again, head bobbing once in agreement. She remembered that well enough. Sex wasn't what she was hoping for when she'd tried to sing to Santana before, but at least the Latina was here now.

"So can you just… hold on?" A pause. "I've missed you, BrittBritt." Surprised, the blonde nodded again and held Santana close, her face buried in dark curls. "You know… He has really big feet."

It wasn't what she'd been expecting, but Brittany decided that it was still perfect. Because it was still Santana.


	4. Tastes Like Love

**Based on the new promo and a drawing I saw on tumblr. You all know the one. (:**

It had been a long summer. No one knew that better than Santana, who had spent it in turmoil, then in acceptance, then in determination. Self-discovery was hard and it had taken her time, but after their conversation on the last day of school…. After that, Santana had started to think. And the conclusion she came to was that she needed the Cheerios to make everything work. With that shield, there wasn't anything she couldn't do. Except get pregnant, but that was obviously not going to happen. As long as she didn't do anything that would get her kicked off the squad, Santana would rule. So she and Brittany talked to Sue, and then Santana talked to Sue by herself, and long story short… they could now be open with their lives. With their love. Holding hands and carrying each other's books and lunches and…. Dating. They could fucking date and even if people whispered behind her back, the uniform made her untouchable. It was a perfect solution for them, a perfect way to have everything and lose nothing.

"You know, it suits her." Busy rooting through her locker for hers and Brittany's class schedule, Santana was only half listening to her friend—_girlfriend_. Not that she didn't pay attention to her- she was just sort of half buried in her book bag and the blonde's voice was muffled.

"Hm?" She found the two pieces of paper at the bottom, caught beneath her AP chem book. She curled her fingers around them and eased them free, at last smirking successfully before straightening up out of the locker. "What suits who?" But she turned in that instant and spotted Quinn and knew exactly what she was talking about. The bright pink coloring the once-blonde hair really added an extra something to their friend's perfect visage. Santana, now more accepting of who she was, wasn't too annoyed with how hot she knew Quinn was. "Yeah, I guess." Quinn walked towards them and it was as if she moved in slow motion. Her head tilted up, lifted in the traditional nod of greeting as she got closer to them. "Nice Kool Aid dye job, Fabray," Santana sneered, though there was no cruelty in her voice. The Latina shut her locker before sliding her arm around Brittany's waist, who in turn hooked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. The smirk softened into a warm smile.

"Nice girlfriend," Quinn shot back, an eyebrow lifting. The familiar gesture comforted Santana, assured her that despite the new wardrobe and the upside down cross and the bright hair, this was still the same HBIC. Without further comment, she passed by them, hips swaying as she sauntered around a corner, all eyes on her.

"She looks hot," Brittany said with a grin, which had Santana narrowing her eyes and turning to look at her. Tan fingers pinched her hip and Brittany jolted, giggling as she turned to look down at Santana. "Not as hot as my super hot girlfriend," she reassured, and Santana smiled again as the blonde pressed their lips together. Brittany nuzzled closer, her nose brushing across Santana's in a quick Eskimo kiss. "But still really hot." Santana pulled back, gave Brittany's arm a smack before rolling her eyes and turning to march towards their first class. The dancer jogged to catch up, her hand finding the smaller girl's before she twined their fingers together. Santana couldn't help but smile again. Okay, maybe she was whipped. So what? "Do you think she tastes like pink?"

Unaffected by how odd the question seemed, Santana lifted a shoulder and let their joined hands swing between them, her gaze falling to them every once in a while as they walked. Every time she saw them, another soft smile pulled at her lips. "You'll have to ask Berry, I guess," she replied at last and Brittany giggled, pressing a kiss to the Latina's forehead.


	5. Colors

Rated: M? I guess… Technically.

Summary: Idk. Santana has a secret artistic side and Brittany's her subject a lot of the time. Also, this is really weird and Idk what it is so. Yeah.

"Turn your head, just a little," Santana murmured, adding soft words of praise in Spanish- almost more to herself than her subject. _Swish._She moved the brush swiftly, frowning down at her work as Brittany watched her, squirming a little. She was supposed to be holding still, but watching Santana paint her image on canvas always had her just a bit edgy. There was something so… _intense_in her dark eyes. Artist's eyes, she thought dreamily as she gazed at the Latina. No one would have guessed that the girl had a passion for art, but she created some of the most vivid pieces Brittany had ever seen, and maybe she wasn't an art critic or anything, but she was pretty sure Santana could get famous off of the paintings she did. "Santana." She mumbled it, lips barely moving because her artist was moody and tended to get snappy if she ruined her pose. Luckily Santana loved her enough to indulge her interruptions, something she would do for no one else. Black eyes flickered up and focused on the blonde, lips pursing slightly. Brittany didn't actually have anything to say. She'd just wanted Santana to look at her with those eyes. It made her body ache and she smiled briefly before relaxing her features again. "So serious," she breathed as she always did, imitating Rose from Titanic. It got a small smile from Santana before she returned to painting, brow creased as she worked her lines across the page and smoothly blended rough edges.

When Santana looked up next, her model was no longer on the bed she'd so meticulously arranged her on quite some time before. It made her frown deepen and she lowered her hand as she searched with her eyes, only to find the girl wrapped in a black sheet from Santana's bed as she peered out through her window. She opened her mouth to chastise her for the move, but the light was hitting her so perfectly that she bit her tongue and quickly used her fingers to mix the proper golds for what she needed, the new color streaking her painting in sweeping lines. By the time Brittany has completed a circuit around the room, Santana is frantically adding more color to the nearly completed picture. Brittany circled around to stand behind her, her chin dropping on top of her head. As usual, it's an amazing work of art. The figure that is Brittany curves over the painting, naked body obscured by what first appears to be flames. Upon closer inspection, however, the lines and shadows are all wrong and Brittany realizes she is enveloped in pure light. It halos her head and seems to spread from her very being. When she asked Santana what it was, Santana lifted a shoulder.

"It's you, B," she mumbled, turning her desk chair so that she could face the blonde. Her expression is serious, eyes still harboring that artist's intensity. Her cheek is streaked with paint, and so are her hands. Brittany stared down at her, confused and very interested in what Santana meant by that, her own fingers itching to wipe away the paint. "You're the light. It's coming from you. It's…" Hard to explain, they both finish in her their heads, but Brittany gets it then and she smiled at Santana softly before bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. Her thumb swiped at the paint as she let the sheet pool at her feet, lean, naked body hovering over Santana's as she brought their lips together. Santana, still riding the high of her creative outlet, didn't protest. Tan hands lifted to Brittany's waist, streaked up over her back and down again to curve over her hips. Trails of golden paint were left behind, mapping the journey of her hands.

As the kiss grew in intensity, Santana stood slowly. Their mouths clung together, tongues dancing, as she eased the blonde back towards her bed. It, too, had been carefully arranged during the initial posing process, sheets and pillows draped so that she could get the basic shape of the lights down. All of it was swept aside or crumpled as the tangled pair fell onto the bed. It is a post-painting ritual, this coming together. Somehow the artistic thrill always seemed to linger in them, Santana's eyes burning black as they lost themselves. "Santana," Brittany breathed into the Latina's mouth as paint-streaked hands ran over her. Her body arched up off the mattress, flipped them until the other girl lay spread beneath her. She was still in her Cheerios uniform, but it was streaked with paint already- golds and creams and blues staining the once-pristine white, red, and black ensemble. Brittany giggled at the sight, body lifting long enough for her to rid Santana of her spanks and underwear. "You're so beautiful, San," she breathed as she dipped her head to kiss her again, hand streaking up under the skirt to the heat beneath.

"Britt." She moaned her name, hips canting upward as she clung to the blonde's shoulders. Santana had always had an artist's heart, and in times like these, the world bled color. Brittany's pale hair, a waterfall of sunshine. Her eyes, so many shades of blue. They were drowning together in shades of greens and purples and reds, all of the colors moving gently before fireworking behind her eyelids as long, agile fingers sink into her. Brittany filled her and their eyes locked as they moved together, more colors bursting around them, inside them, as they did so. Low murmurs and breathy sighs and quiet moans fill the bedroom. Brittany is painted in a multitude of colors, from the ones that had been staining Santana's hands to the ones that burst between them now. Santana didn't know why she saw these starbursts of color when they were together. Perhaps it was their own brand of magic.

Brittany moved deeper inside of her, their hips moving together as Santana tried to blink away the streaks of rainbow air. It was no use. A thumb fell on the hidden bundle of nerves, circled it expertly so that the colors shifted and exploded, tiny volcanoes of pleasure and love and so much more. Santana gasped loudly then, her teeth sinking into Brittany's lip. She tugged gently, drew it between her own, sucked at her flesh as her left hand slipped between them and she sank her own fingers into the damp walls of her lover. They each had their own colors, but joining together like this had them mixing, swirling, colliding so that they exploded again and again. It was overwhelmingly beautiful and Santana wished she was a better painter so that she might somehow paint it all- but she supposed painting the love between them was as impossible as trying to put it in words how perfect they were together.

When they peaked, the colors seemed almost electrified, intensifying in brightness and number, blinding Santana to anything but Brittany's face. And as they fell, it all faded and smoothed out until they had at last drifted back to earth and it was just the golds and blues again.


End file.
